Lights in the Distance
by aliwildgoose
Summary: Zuko revisits his old apartment in the lower ring, and mourns a home he'd never wanted in the first place. Sequel to Imperfect.


This is a sequel to Imperfect, but while it helps to have read that first, this mostly stands on its own as well.

oOoOo

**Lights in the Distance  
**  
oOoOo

It wasn't hard to find the right window. Zuko had come and gone by it a dozen times or more, syncing his footsteps with Uncle's snores as he crossed the creaking floorboards and slipped out into the night. After a day spent serving tea and sweeping floors for commoners, he'd craved the open air. He had wanted to remember the power of his body, to feel the weight of his swords as they perfectly followed his will, to see fear in another man's eyes and know that he had caused it. He'd been reckless, taking stupid risks for small delicacies that Uncle pretended not to notice, a petty thief who hid his shame behind a wooden mask.

After the lake, when his fever had passed and his days were a rush toward the Jasmine Dragon's grand opening, he had merely needed the space and silence to think. His rage had faded into numb uncertainty, and the broadswords were left behind as he wandered the sleeping city, lying on rooftops with his vision full of unfamiliar stars. Iroh had asked him what he wanted, and for a long time all he could think of was the ache in his chest and the fading memory of his father's face.

Zuko crouched on the window sill, balanced on the balls of his feet, and peered through a tear in the soot-stained paper shutters. At first he thought the apartment was vacant, untouched since they had moved to the upper ring. But when he pushed the shutters aside, moonlight caught the outline of a futon, the remains of a hasty dinner, a chair with someone's tunic thrown over it. Zuko held his breath, muscles tensing as he listened for the rustle of bedclothes or the whisper of sleeping bodies. A distant yowl of fighting animals echoed off the cobblestones below.

His split-toed shoes made no sound as he stepped into the room. The air was stale, the surfaces coated in a film of greasy dust. The chair and futon were the only furnishings, and both were buried under dirty clothes and the detritus of meals bought from street vendors -- a banana leaf dotted with clumps of sticky rice, a pile of bamboo skewers, a crumpled sheet of rice paper that smelled of fried fish. Zuko stood on the bare wooden floor and wrinkled his nose. He was uncertain what he'd wanted to find here, but this wasn't it.

Zuko backed against the wall, slid down to the floor and drew his knees up under his chin, his feet leaving trails in the dust.

For three years his home had been an iron coffin, a barge that carried him through a half-life of rootless searching. He had journeyed to each of the air temples in turn, in case the now-ancient Avatar had taken shelter within their familiar walls. He had scoured the surrounding countryside, letting Uncle charm rumors out of old women over cups of tea. And then he had chased those rumors along the coasts of the Earth Kingdom, ghost trails that led him far too deep within enemy territory. By the second year, he had given up all pretense of taking these peasant tales seriously, abandoning any that demanded he leave the shore. He grew to hate the feel of solid ground.

When he had decided, at last, to dip into the empty wilderness of the South Pole, he'd directed his men with clipped certainty. But there had been nothing behind it. He had ranted and cursed, had stormed across the deck and scowled out at the horizon in a show of princely indignation, but the fire had left him.

It was worse once the Avatar was sighted, and Zuko had finally dared to dream of home again. The ache of hopelessness faded over time, dulled by the monotony of failure. Hope was sharp, impossible to ignore once reignited. Hope cut him more deeply than its absence ever could, and when Azula tore it from him he was almost grateful.

The apartment had been an empty box when they arrived, made habitable for the first night by travel-worn bedding and a lantern borrowed from a neighbor. Zuko argued that this was only temporary, that there was no point in wasting time and money on furniture, but Uncle had only smiled and opened his wallet. Within days he had filled their modest rooms with the necessities of city life, leaving only Zuko's corner untouched amid the clutter of tea pots and brush paintings. Within a week, Uncle had begun to refer to it as "home."

Zuko had scoffed at him, pointing out how ridiculous it was to think that this was ever going to last -- two Fire Nation fugitives working at a teashop had no business playing house. But even as he sneered at the idea of peasant life, he had quietly relished the comforts it brought after months of damp sleeping bags and sputtering campfires. He'd especially enjoyed the mornings, laying in bed with his eyes closed as the sunlight warmed his face, the smells of jasmine and porridge drifting in from the kitchen.

The apartment had always been clean and bright, and Zuko's chest tightened as his fingertips traced patterns in the grime. He remembered leaving the tea house one evening, hanging his apron on its peg and telling Uncle he would meet him at home. He hadn't corrected himself, and Uncle had smiled. That night he had wondered if he would ever see Jin again, and his dreams had been cool and green.

When they said goodbye in the stables of the Earth King's palace, Uncle had asked him again what he wanted. Zuko had explained his plans to return to the Fire Nation, to try and convince his father of what needed to be done and what could not be excused any longer. Uncle had told him, gently, that it would not be so simple, and Zuko had known -- knew now -- that he was right. Just as he knew that he had to try, all the same.

"You must be glad to be going home again," Uncle had said. Long moments had passed before Zuko realized what he meant. Now, he studied the last traces of a simpler life -- holes in the plaster where scrolls had once hung, stray tea leaves between the cracks in the floor, a tear in the paper screens where he had caught the hilt of his broadswords -- and he accepted what that pause had implied.

oOoOo

She was waiting for him when he crept back into his room, sitting cross-legged on the bed with a book in her lap. She wore a silk robe over her nightgown, her hair in a thick braid that hung down her back and coiled on the blankets. She looked up as he slid the shutters closed behind him.

Zuko leaned against the window frame and peered through bamboo slats, the lights of the upper ring just visible above the palace walls. "I know you hate it here," he said softly.

"Not as much as I used to," Mai admitted, closing the book and setting it aside. She leaned back on her palms. "Getting rid of those Kyoshi nightmares helped."

"And the library?"

"The library helped, too." She chuckled. "Not to mention things that happened _in_ the library..."

Zuko's smile didn't reach his eyes. He pulled his black shirt over his head, folded it methodically, and set it on top of his dresser. It helped to have something to do with his hands.

"You should get some sleep," Mai said. "Azula's going to want to leave before sunrise."

Zuko crossed the room and sat beside her on the bed, brushing his fingertips against hers. "It wasn't like how I remembered," he said softly.

She sighed. "Did you expect it to be?"

"Not really."

Mai slipped her hand over his, their fingers twining together. "The Fire Nation...you know it's not going to be the same, either," she said.

"I know," he said. He turned to look at her, taking in her uncertain smile, the way she twisted her braid around the fingers of her free hand, the rapid beat of her pulse on her bare neck. He remembered Uncle's question and thought of soft lips and warm skin, of long afternoons in the library and cascades of inky hair, of knives in strange places and rare bursts of laughter. He thought of what he was leaving behind, and what he was taking with him, then curled his arm around her shoulders and buried his face in her hair.

"Will you stay with me tonight?" he whispered.

She cupped his jaw in her hand, her thumb tracing his cheekbone. "Always," she said, and he believed her.

oOoOo

_Many thanks to Rawles and Regan for the betas, and Clio for help with titles!_


End file.
